Synopsis

Anthony Beretta inherited the family winery at the tender age of twenty-four. It’s a struggle to keep it up, but he loves it and is determined to make it work even if it kills him. That is, if a motorcyclist doesn’t kill him first. He initially judges the man, attractive as he may be, on the basis of his appearance and apparently limited vocabulary. He soon discovers he’s wrong, but by then Oscar Kennett has already judged Anthony on his appearance.

Oscar thinks Tony Beretta is uptight and snobbish, and Tony’s speech for the charity they’re working on together reinforces that, even when he finds out Tony did it just to push his buttons. His adorable curls and sexy glasses might not be enough to change his mind, but maybe there’s more to Tony than meets the eye.

Excerpt

One: Beretta Estate Winery
Anthony Beretta hovered in his office, listening to his cousin Katie extol the virtues of their Concord wine.

“It’s a heritage grape,” she was saying, “the kind they make grape juice from.”

Because wine that tasted like commercial grape juice was so popular. Still, there were customers to extol its dubious virtues to, and that was something. Didn’t mean he wanted to meet them, not over the Concord.

“It makes a great spritzer and is the perfect base for a sangria,” she continued. “Not too sweet, but with a full fruity flavour.”

He had to hand it to her. She knew how to sell it. Then again, Katie loved the winery almost as much as he did.

He moved away from his office door and sat behind his desk, looking once more at the open agenda. The winery hosted events, mostly weddings, and provincial regulations had recently changed. He had an appointment with his insurance broker in Bayham in little more than an hour. Which was why he was wearing his suit, instead of the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy cotton button-down he normally wore when he worked at the tasting room. He tugged at the lavender tie that felt like it was strangling him.

After checking the time on his phone once more, Anthony cleared his desk and locked the files away. No one else needed to know how shaky the winery’s finances were. He got to his feet and patted his jacket pocket for his car keys.

There was a mirror beside the door, so one could double-check one’s appearance before going to talk to customers. Anthony gave himself a critical look, pushing his glasses up his nose automatically. The mirror showed him what he was—a rail-thin man just shy of six feet tall, with hair that would never look anything other than dishevelled and dark-framed glasses. At least the glasses went some way towards disguising the shadows under his eyes. He looked like an upended mop, albeit a well-dressed mop.

He scowled. He’d much rather be in his jeans and work boots, out with his stubborn Foch vines. Three years ago, he’d put those bastards in, after his father had the gall to die of a heart attack.

His mouth tightened. He couldn’t think of his father without a sour mix of anger, grief, and guilt.

A discordant jangling let him know the customers had left, and he pushed his door open wider just as Katie rounded the corner. “Ant,” she said, “so glad I caught you. Could you pick up some of that jalapeño sauce from the Mexican store? It really shows off the Viognier. It’s a hard sell on its own.”

He refrained from scowling. Ant was a childhood nickname he’d long outgrown. His name was Anthony. She was right about the Viognier, though.

“Jalapeño sauce. Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve thought about giving me Friday off,” she said, her tone rising at the end of the sentence, but not quite enough to make it a question.

He stifled a sigh. “And you’re not asking Leigh to switch with you because…?”

“Because it’s her wedding shower. Jesus, Ant, pull your head out of your ass once in a while.”

He ground his teeth as he bit back a sharp reply. “Fine. You have Friday off.” It wasn’t like he had anything better to do on a Friday. The tasting room closed at seven. He could catch up on the paperwork while he ate, and on Saturday, he could spend the day in the vineyard, trying to discover why the Foch vines were underproducing.

“You’re a prince,” Katie replied, but her snark had hardly any bite.

Happy employees were long-term employees, his father had always said. Katie really did care about the winery. She just had a social life. He shouldn’t be so hard on her.

And what about my happiness?

As the owner of the winery, there was no one around to see to his happiness. He didn’t even know what would make him happy anymore.

“Sorry, Katie.” He forced a smile. “Do you mind picking out a gift the estate can give her?”

“Yeah, give me a hundred dollars. It can be from the winery, you, Aunt Rosie, and me.”

“Take it from petty cash.”

“There’s no petty cash left, remember?”

He turned to hide his wince. “I’ll take some money from the account while I’m out.”

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Meet the Author

Sydney Blackburn is a binary star system. Always a voracious reader, she began to write when she couldn’t find the stories she wanted to read. She likes candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach… Oh wait, wrong profile. She’s a snarky introvert and admits to having a past full of casual sex and dubious hookups, which she uses for her stories.

She likes word play and puns and science-y things. And green curry.

Her dislikes include talking on the phone, people trying to talk to her before she’s had coffee, and filling out the “about me” fields in social media.

Synopsis

Brendan Thackeray-Prentiss is an Ivy League-educated trust-funder who Gotham Magazine named the most eligible gay bachelor in New York City. He lives for finding his soulmate, but after walking in on his boyfriend of three transcendent months soaping up in the shower with an older female publicist, he’s on a steady diet of scotch, benzodiazepines, and compulsive yoga. Men are completely off the menu.

Callisthenes Panagopoulos has a problem most guys dream of. With the body and face of a European soccer heartthrob, the vigorous blond hair of a Mormon missionary, and a smile that makes traffic cops stuff their ticket books back in their utility belts, he’s irresistible to everyone. But being a constant guy-magnet comes with its discontents, like an ex-boyfriend who tried to drive his Smart car through Cal’s front door. It makes him wonder if he’s been cursed when it comes to love.

When Brendan and Cal meet, the attraction is meteoric, and they go from date to mates at the speed of time-lapse photography. But to stay together, they’ll have to overcome Cal’s jealous BFF, Romanian mobsters, hermit widowers, and a dictatorship on the brink of revolution during a dream wedding in the Greek isles that becomes a madcap odyssey.

A gay romantic comedy of errors based on Chariton’s Callirhoe, the world’s oldest extant romance novel.

Excerpt

Chapter One
Brendan Thackeray-Prentiss was not interested in finding a boyfriend.

He reminded himself of this whenever he passed by an attractive young man on the Upper East Side streets, or when this or that friend took to social media to proclaim a change in their relationship status, or when he clicked through an especially earnest e-mail driving for donations to help gay couples maintain their legal status in the Deep South Bible Belt, and most of all when people asked him, “How is it possible the most eligible gay bachelor in New York City is still single?”

Brendan had made a vow, and it had received the endorsement of his therapist, Dr. Clotilde Trapp. He was taking time off from sex and dating in order to clear his head, and to renew, and to rise up from the ashes like a phoenix, if he wanted to be dramatic about it, which he truly had earned the right to be.

Thiago, a model and an erstwhile compulsory homosexual, had thoroughly shattered Brendan’s belief he knew anything about love. After three full months of practically living together—including traveling together to St. Barts for the most we-belong-together weekend ever experienced by two sexually attracted, socially, intellectually, politically and morally compatible people in the universe—the fantasy had dissolved to black and been unveiled as a waking terror when Brendan returned to his apartment one afternoon and walked in on Thiago and a fortysomething, obscenely nippled fashion publicist in the shower. Thiago’s only words— “You can join us if you want.”

Brendan was on a detox from the gays (and those who styled themselves as “gay-adjacent”) for at least thirty days. His hookup and dating media had been deactivated. His libido had been psychically stowed up in bubble wrap and locked away in storage. No flirting with the coffee shop barista when he purchased his daily macchiato. Eyes on his own business in the locker room at the tennis and racquet club. No “what-if” conversations with himself about a new guy in the neighborhood who kept the same schedule for picking up his groceries. Brendan was entirely committed to an asexual lifestyle, drawing on the same well of discipline that had seen him through his presummer purge of sugar, bread, and alcohol.

That was until he opened the tinkling bell door of The Golden Fleece Antiques and Curio Shop on Lexington Avenue, and a young man at the cashier’s desk looked up at him with the buoyancy of a hand-raised golden retriever.

“Hi!” the clerk said.

He had a preternaturally handsome face of Mediterranean origins and the vigorous, cherubic hair of a Mormon missionary. He wore a teal, graphic T-shirt, which augmented the stunning aquamarine color of his eyes. The T-shirt rode up his upper arms, which were well defined like an Olympic diver or a god of Mount Olympus for that matter. The shirt was emblazoned with a triple-scoop ice cream cone and a question: “Want a lick?”

Brendan’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t produce a word or even budge. Helpfully, the shop clerk didn’t act like he was a mentally impaired patient run free of his caretakers.

“Sorry to startle you. I guess I overdid it with the welcome. I haven’t had a customer all morning. Take a look around and don’t mind me. Or go ahead and mind me if you need any help.”

Brendan smiled, nodded, and took a stumbling step toward the nearest display of bric-a-brac.

The shop felt like a cage in which he’d been ensnared. Brendan tried to fix his attention on the chintz teacup sets and art deco tumblers, but his awareness of the clerk was too much. Was he supposed to pretend he wasn’t sharing the same space with the most deathly adorable creature he had ever seen in his entire life? Brendan’s heartbeat accelerated to the range of near cardiac arrest, and he was reasonably sure he was sweating through the armpits of his burgundy gingham shirt.

He drifted discreetly behind a shelf of African fetishes to consider his options. He could make a sprint for the door and fast-track down the street, never to step within ten blocks of the shop, praying to never run into the clerk again. The alternative was to have to face that otherworldly, beautiful man as a garbling, awestruck lunatic.

Brendan clamped down on his panic. He was twenty-eight years old, far removed from his scarring teenage years at boarding school, charting out routes through campus to avoid running into his torturous crush—Jacob Chandler, captain of the lacrosse team, who used to punch his shoulder and call him “Brendawg,” which sent him into a withering, red-faced fits of aphasia. Brendan now held his own with men. He had no reason to feel inferior. He kept his body in shape. He wasn’t too modest to acknowledge his WASPy good looks claimed attention at times. Gotham Magazine had named him the most eligible gay bachelor of 2018.

For all he knew, the clerk was one of those oblivious heterosexual types who didn’t notice when other men took an interest in them. It made no difference anyway. Brendan had sworn off sex and dating. Even if the clerk was amused or offended by his shrinking, girlish behavior, they were nothing but passing strangers.

A reasonable plan came together. Brendan would grab the first thing in reach, pay for it at the counter, and exit the store with the dignity of having conducted himself like a normal customer.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Brendan seized up like a jailbird caught in searchlights. That friendly, innocent voice. A hint of a lazy, Upstate accent? A cool wash of awareness passed over Brendan. Was he really plotting schemes to rush out on a stranger whose shop he’d entered quite willfully? Brendan came around the shelf, holding it together for the moment.

“My grandmother’s birthday,” he said. “She collects cameos. I’ve been buying them for her since I was a kid.” Brendan tried something breezy. “I saw the name of your store and thought I might be in luck.”

The clerk set down a leather-bound book he’d been reading. “We’re Greek, but we don’t have any cameos that old. I mean, the store’s Greek. My uncle owns it. My great-uncle actually. I’m only half Greek. The other side’s Polish and German. But we do have some Victorian cameos in the cabinet.” He stood up from his chair and waved Brendan over to a glass-enclosed jewelry case.

Ornamental pins and pendants swam in Brendan’s vision. His gaze bobbed stubbornly up to the clerk on the other side of the cabinet. He was as adorable as a puppy. Barely out of college, Brendan guessed. Was he a cuddly puppy in bed? Christ. Brendan’s imagination had burst free from its hinges, and he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at the clerk. His pectorals filling out his T-shirt. The golden hairs on his anatomically perfect forearms. The flecks of sun on his long, broad nose. His supple, berry-brown lips. “Want a lick?” Yes, please. At the crook of the clerk’s neck, and his armpit, and his nipples, and every blessed place between his legs. A smoldering image blew up in Brendan’s mind’s eye. The clerk’s mouth opening wide to swathe his tongue around a triple-scoop ice cream cone.

“I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Brendan buried his gaze in the floor while the clerk unlocked the cabinet. A blush seared his face. He felt like a pervert and never more happily so.

The clerk brought out a double cameo silver hair comb and two cameo brooches and set them neatly on the glass counter. Brendan awakened to the world of the antique shop. Grandmum’s birthday. Focus Brendan. He looked over the jewelry. A gold-framed brooch with a cherub carved on its oval plaque caught his eye. His grandmother had an extensive collection of ladies’ silhouettes. The cherub was special.

“I like that one too,” the clerk said, looking from the brooch to Brendan with a grin.

“It’s gorgeous,” Brendan said.

“Is your grandmother romantic?”

Brendan smirked. “I suppose. She’s been married three times.”

“It’s Eros. The god of love. That’s why I asked.”

Was there a defensive tone in the clerk’s voice? Had Brendan been too brusque? The thought of hurting his feelings shamed him. “It’s really exceptional,” he said.

“She’s lucky to have a grandson like you.”

Brendan shifted this way and that like a bashful boy.

“I mean, a lot of people, when their grandparents get old, they hardly pay any attention to them at all.” The clerk said it like he was sharing shocking news from an investigative report. So sweet and unpretentious. Brendan’s insides turned to goo.

He came back together. “Oh. My grandmother and I are very close. She practically raised me. I’m closer to her than my mother and father.”

Their glances met for a breath and then darted away.

“You know, you’re a really sweet guy,” the clerk said.

Brendan ventured a glance at him. “You barely know me.”

“I think you are. I mean, how many guys take off from work in the middle of the day to buy birthday presents for their grandmother?” The clerk tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. His face darkened, and he looked askance with a self-reproachful snigger. “I shouldn’t have said that. Probably made you uncomfortable. Never mind me. I’m always going on too much, talking to the customers.”

Brendan shook his head. “I don’t mind at all.”

“So what’ll it be? Is that the one?” he asked, giving Brendan a playful shrug of his blond eyebrows.

“Definitely.”

The clerk grinned. “I’ll get it wrapped up for you.”

Brendan followed him to the cashier counter, where he brought out tissue paper and cellophane tape. With the impending termination of their transaction, a sorrowful ache worked through Brendan. His glance pivoted around. It was only lust. In which he was not permitted to indulge. But what if the clerk was “the one” he was meant to be with? What if fate had conspired to introduce him to his soul mate while he’d marked off a blackout period in his dating life? He had to take these things into consideration.

He noticed the leather-bound journal on the counter. Lettres de Jean-Arthur Rimbaud. The clerk was reading love poems by the most notorious, iconic homosexual who had ever lived? This was encouraging.

“You like Rimbaud?” Brendan asked.

The clerk looked up from his wrapping. “Yeah. I thought I’d try to read his work in the original French this summer.”

“I minored in French literature,” Brendan blurted out.

This earned him a smile of gleaming, white teeth. “I was a classical studies major.”

“I minored in that too.” Brendan tried to explain without sounding pretentious or mentally unbalanced. “I was an English major, but I couldn’t really decide what I wanted to do. I ended up triple minoring in French lit, classical studies, and art history. With a certificate in dramaturgy.”

“That’s amazing. What do you do now?”

“Um, my family has a business. It’s not anything related to my degree.”

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Meet the Author

Andrew J. Peters has been writing fiction since his elementary school principal let him read excerpts from his mystery novel over the PA system during lunch period, an early brush with notoriety, which quite possibly may have been the height of his literary celebrity. Since then, he has studied to be a veterinarian, worked as a social worker for LGBTQ youth, and settled into university administration, while keeping late hours at his home computer writing stories. He is the author of eight books, including the award-winning The City of Seven Gods (2017 Best Horror/Fantasy Novel at the Silver Falchion awards) and the popular Werecat series (2016 Romance Reviews Readers’ Choice awards finalist). Andrew lives in New York City with his husband Genaro and their cat Chloë. When he’s not writing, he enjoys travelling, Broadway shows, movies, and thinking up ways to subvert heteronormative narratives.

Synopsis

Brooklyn Harper’s worst nightmare has become her reality. She has been captured by Isolation.

Trapped in a white-walled labyrinth by Juneau Malloy, Brooklyn is faced with the horrors of Isolation’s finest training yet. The skills she learned in Camp Eleven are put to the test during brutal assessments of her physical strength, mental sharpness, combat expertise, and emotional fortitude.

Juneau offers the renegade Omens a deal—sign a contract and hand over their freedom or endure torturous trials day after day. A test of wills surfaces, and if Brooklyn isn’t careful, her recklessness could come at a price she isn’t willing to pay.

While Brooklyn confronts her worst fears, Julian Matsumoto comes face-to-face with Isolation’s biggest secret. The unknown is at his fingertips, a plan is forming behind closed doors, and Julian must choose between a life outside the facility, or a chance to destroy the corporation who stole him and his friends from their lives once and for all.

ECHO Campaign is the second in the Isolation series.

Excerpt

Chapter One
Brooklyn opened her eyes. Darkness pressed down on her. It weighed heavy on her chest and arms and legs, folding around her like silk. She felt sheets beneath her, fingertips twitching restlessly, stiff from hours or days or weeks of being stationary. She curled her toes and shifted back and forth on the stiff mattress. The fog began to lift. Where am I? Where are they? It came back to her little by little. The camp, the woods, the river, the warehouse, the club, then Juneau. Flashes, stills, moving pictures she struggled to remember, memories she couldn’t fit the right voices to.

She flared her nostrils and sat up, bracing for an onslaught of pain that didn’t come. Her pupils dilated. She took a breath and another, steadying her heartbeat. She lifted the edge of the plain, gray T-shirt and checked for wounds. There was nothing but smooth skin.

Porter’s thumb on her rib—her splintered bone. His hand smashed over her mouth. Helicopter wings. Engines—Rayce in a bed next to her—I’m bleeding—searing pain in her chest—a tube shoved between her ribs—Serisky. She threaded her fingers through her hair and gripped the top of her head, pulling herself into a ball.

They’d been taken. Juneau had found them.

Brooklyn’s cheeks heated and her throat clenched. She didn’t know what they’d done to her. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where to go. She was suddenly at odds with her instincts, battling the urge to break down, to scream for help, and welcoming stillness instead.

The room smelled sterile. Like plastic, maybe. Clean. Brooklyn counted her fingers and then her toes, ran her tongue across her teeth to make sure none were missing, and kept the anxiety pooling in her gut from climbing into her throat. Now was not the time to break down. Her vision blurred. She swallowed hard and whispered, “My name is Brooklyn Harper.” One breath. “I am nineteen.” Two breaths. “I’m from San Diego.” Three breaths. “My name is Brooklyn Harper.”

Silence cradled her voice. She had never been alone like this—the kind of alone that swallowed her.

Brooklyn buried her face in the sliver of space between her knees and chest. She inhaled through her nose, deep and long, and let it out in a swift breath through her mouth.

You’re trapped. They’re gone. It’s over.

Fear played behind the rest of her thoughts. Fight or flight. Focus or panic.

“Okay,” she breathed out. “Okay.”

There was a nightstand next to the bed with perfectly round edges. She reached out and pushed it, not surprised to find it bolted to the ground. There was nothing else. She moved her legs too quickly and blood rushed into her feet. Pins and needles made her knees buckle and her shoulders ache. Her head spun when she stood, but she planted her feet, and stayed steady. You’re alive. There was nothing else. Stay alive. Just the nightstand, the bed, and a door on the other side of the small room.

Click. Click. Air through gears. Something turning. Brooklyn’s attention flicked to the white sphere humming in the far corner. She walked back and forth. It moved with her, following every step she took. A camera.

They’re watching me.

Brooklyn didn’t know what was worse; this stillness or knowing that she was being studied. It made her afraid first, angry second. She dragged her palm across the wall, feeling for any dip or seam, but there was none. No handle, no lock, and no hinges. A tiny window, shielded by a locked metal panel, allowed the outside to look in.

She shoved her index finger in her mouth and nibbled on her nail. Pacing turned to sitting, then back to pacing. Seconds turned to minutes. Or maybe they didn’t. She had no sense of time, no sense of direction. It could’ve been days. Trapped. The word kept coming back, sinking into her bones. You’re trapped. She searched for a vent. An outlet. Anything. But the camera kept humming and the darkness kept pressing on her and Brooklyn was achingly alone.

She debated screaming. Hurting herself. Clawing at the window until the glass shattered—if it could shatter at all. But before she could do anything, the sound of footsteps shuffled on the other side of the door.

Her heart lurched. She scrambled onto the bed and crouched in the corner, poised like a viper. Whatever came through that door was going to let her out or she was going through them. The room illuminated. Brooklyn squinted, fists heavy on her wrists, and held her breath.

“It’s just me.” Gabriel spoke with a warm smile. “I wanted to check on you.”

The tension in Brooklyn’s chest unraveled. Memories ran at her, climbed over her, were shoved down her throat and choked on.

Blood on Gabriel’s white teeth. Black streaks through her blonde hair. The way she tasted.

Brooklyn’s eyes stung. “You’re alive?”

“Of course I am,” Gabriel said. She took easy steps and reached for Brooklyn’s hand. “The Surrogates brought me back here and the doctors gave me a couple transplants. I’m good as new.”

“I…” Brooklyn wanted to lace their fingers, but she didn’t. “I watched you die…I watched them take you and then you came back and…”

She remembered Dawson’s voice from the motel. Look at its mouth.

Gabriel hushed her. “None of that matters, does it?”

Brooklyn’s heart pounded. Her fingertips danced across Gabriel’s face, landing sure and firm on her lips. Perfect. Unmarked. Unfamiliar. Brooklyn’s nail caught the edge of the clone’s smile and dug in. “They did a good job,” Brooklyn whispered. She traced its cheekbones, the slope of its neck. “You’re just like her.”

The smile stretched across the clone’s face evaporated. It lunged, grappling for Brooklyn’s throat. She acted on instinct and heaved both legs back, aiming the soles of her feet at the clone’s chest. Brooklyn needed to get to the door. Quickly. Now. Right now. She bolted, but the clone snatched her ankle and she went crashing to the linoleum. Brooklyn hit the floor and huffed. She cocked her knee back and smashed her heel into the clone’s nose.

The fight didn’t last long. Even if the clone was as strong or capable as an Omen, there was something missing. Brutality, maybe. Recklessness. Desperation. Brooklyn didn’t know. She didn’t care. Her throat was dry and her lashes were wet, and the clone had the greenest eyes. Blood spurted over its lips. It sank against the wall and touched its mouth, glancing at the red, red blood on its fingertips.

Curiosity was strange on things that looked like people.

She jolted forward, grabbed the clone by its jaw, and twisted until she heard the vertebrae on the base of its neck snap. The clone fell to the side; its body a long-limbed heap against the wall. Brooklyn took quick steps out of the open door and into the hallway.

On the right, a line of black-armored guards stood with their guns drawn, pointed at her chest. On the left, there was a narrow white hall lined with doors. Her gaze swept sideways, fixed on the guards. She heaved in even breaths, watching them watch her, and wondered if they were afraid.

They should be.

A nurse slid around a bulky guard. Her face was obscured by a mask, but she held a clipboard to her chest and her platinum hair was fastened into a bun. She blinked, unbothered. “Hello Miss Harper. You’re awake.”

“Juneau thought stress tests would be a good start to their training. Same as you. Now—” She paused to retrieve a long, thin syringe from her pocket. “—I’d rather not have to sedate you.”

A guard stepped forward. Brooklyn stood her ground. He reached for her. She grabbed his wrist and twisted, bending until bone broke. Another guard rushed toward her. She slammed her bare foot into his kneecap. Her legs seized. Brooklyn yelped and toppled to the ground. A thin black wire coiled around her ankles. The armored soldier who had thrown it walked toward her, and Brooklyn growled, snapping her teeth like a dog. The other guard held his wounded arm and stumbled to his feet.

“Do not resist,” one of them said, voice distorted behind a black shield.

The nurse cleared her throat. “Careful, gentlemen. I’d tie her wrists if I were you.” She tilted her head, sighing as she flicked her bored gaze from Brooklyn’s legs to her face, assessing her. “This would be much easier if you’d comply, Miss Harper. There’s nowhere to go. This facility was designed specifically for the Omen Operation. The quicker you come with us, the quicker you’ll see the other assets you arrived with.”

Brooklyn stared at the guard. His gun was mean and sleek, barrel pointed at her chest. He gestured to the wire around her ankles.

“He’ll remove that, and you’ll be free to walk,” the nurse added. “But if you decide to break any more bones, I’m afraid we’ll have to tranquilize you. Either way, you’ll be taken to the holding room.”

She snarled when the guard reached for her. “And that’s where my friends are?”

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” the nurse said.

Fine, she thought. I might as well walk. She nodded to the guard and he cautiously removed the wire from around her ankles. She could strangle him with it. She could take it, sweep his legs out from under him, and snatch his gun. But all it would get her was a needle in the neck.

She needed to find everyone first. Whoever was left, at least.

The nurse nodded and swept her arm out, gesturing for Brooklyn to walk down the hall. “This way.”

They led her through a set of steel doors, down another white hallway. Doors lined each wall. The ceiling was paneled with lights. Her reflection muddied the glossy floor. When they came to the second to last door on the right, the nurse stopped. A gun prodded Brooklyn’s ribs. Another brushed her shoulder. She straightened her back and waited, trying to calm her jittery hands and too-tight lungs. Breathe. The nurse flipped open a security panel, punched in a code, and Brooklyn watched a red light wave from left to right across the nurse’s eye. Retina scans. The lock clicked. Breathe.

“We’ll be back shortly,” the nurse said.

One of the guards prodded her hard with his gun and shoved her through the door.

Soft arms cushioned her. She’d fallen right into someone’s chest and she gasped, squirming against them. They held on tighter. She knew Dawson’s skin. His breath. His broad shoulders. But she squirmed anyway, thrashing in his grip.

You might not be you.

She pulled back and clawed at his neck. “Prove it,” she snapped. “Prove you’re you.”

“Fuck you, seriously?” Dawson snapped, and ripped away from her fingernails. “It’s me, Brooklyn. It’s me, same guy you punched in the warehouse—what do you want me to say?”

“Good enough,” she blurted, and wrapped her arms around him.

“I get it, they sent one into my room too, but c’mon,” he growled. “We’re here. I’m okay. You’re okay.” His mouth was warm on her throat, face buried in the crook of her shoulder. “It’s you, right? You’re okay?”

Brooklyn let him hold her. She touched his arms and his shoulder blades and cradled the back of his neck in her palm. “Yeah, it’s me, and…” Nothing was okay. “I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m alive,” he said. He pulled back and his nose touched her temple. “Porter?” She shook her head. His blue eyes were an angry sea, crashing into her. He bit down on a wince to keep it at bay. “Julian?” She shook her head again. Dawson looked different now, harsher in this light. His hair was gone, buzzed close to his skin, paler, body more compact.

“I was alone,” she said. “I don’t… I don’t know where they are.”

He let her go and she wished he hadn’t. “I’m sure they’re fine,” he said.

Brooklyn knew a lie when she heard one.

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Meet the Author

Taylor Brooke (she/they) worked as a special effects makeup artist for many years before she wrote her first book. When she’s not writing, she’s exploring the Pacific Northwest, backpacking, or reading. She is the author of The Camellia Clock Cycle and writes #ownvoices Queer books about love, secrets and magic.

Synopsis

Alex Coulson spends his days as a lowly laboratory assistant. At night, he watches movies in his lonely apartment and dreams of exciting adventures and handsome leading men.

When an electrical fire breaks out in the lab, an experimental machine malfunctions and Alex is caught in the explosion. He awakens, injured and confused, to learn he has traveled two hundred years into the future—to the year 2230. Under the care of the gorgeous Doctor Baylin Davies (a definite contender for a leading man) Alex recovers quickly, and his feelings for Baylin deepen each day. Baylin is handsome, sexy, caring, and a verified genius—everything Alex could ever dream of. Add in the whole concept of living in the future, and Alex soon decides the year 2230 is the perfect year to begin his new life.

But then there’s the major…

Whenever the intimidating military man, Major Marcais, is near, a strange power overcomes Alex’s senses, clouding his mind and weakening his desire to be with Baylin.

When the major reveals he is an alien and declares Alex to be his life mate, Alex must find the strength to resist him. And while fighting for the man he truly desires, Alex just might discover he’s the leading man in his own adventure.

Excerpt

Chapter One
Alex Coulson’s sports shoes made a loud squawk on the polished floor. His step faltered. Had anyone heard? He scanned the cavernous office foyer. With gray marble floors and clusters of expensive couches, it looked nothing like a scientific research center and more like an exclusive hotel. An empty hotel. Of course it was empty; only the truly dedicated work on Sunday. Actually, the dedicated and people like him—sad, pathetic losers without a life. He shook his head.

Okay, Alex, quit the self-pity party. No one likes a whiner.

After another quick glance around the foyer, he strode forward and headed down the long corridor lined with identical doors. The small panes of glass in each one allowed him a glimpse inside the research labs—all empty. He appeared to be the sole, sad, pathetic person here today. At the end of the corridor, he stopped in front of the door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.”

One wave of his security pass over the sensor and the lab door slid open. The sharp smell of smoke and plastic invaded his senses. His nose twitched. Crap! Electrical fire! No doubt about it. As the wire’s plastic coating melted, it gave off a distinct smell. He scanned the room, searching for the source, but everything appeared normal. He dashed through the main room and into the smaller lab.

Like an early morning fog, a veil of smoke hovered near the far wall, centered over the control panel. In seconds, his heart rate hit full throttle. “Crap! Crap! Crap!” The Accelerator control panel! His focus flicked to the partition wall protecting the experimental machine from prying eyes. Good. No sign of smoke there. That would be bad. Very bad. He dashed into the thickening cloud of smoke and headed toward its source.

With short, gasping breaths, he swallowed and choked on the thick acrid air. What about the fire alarm? Why hadn’t it triggered yet? He slammed his hand onto the control-panel power button and then stepped back. No shutdown. Nothing. Like ocean buoy lights viewed through the fog, the faint glow of backlit buttons and switches remained. He blinked rapidly as his tear ducts reacted to the invasive smoke, creating a torrent of tears. From beneath the watery veil, he focused on the computer screen embedded in the wall. What the hell? Why was the program running? Had he forgotten to close it the previous night? His boss would have his—

A flame erupted behind the control panel.

“Oh, God!” Coughing, he stumbled backward. What should he do? Brave the flames and try to turn off the program? Call the fire department? Fire extinguisher?

Yes! Fire extinguisher.

He spun around and grabbed the red cylinder hanging on the wall. Maybe he could put the fire out before it caused too much damage. Maybe it wouldn’t even come to the attention of management. He ripped off the safety guard thingy, pointed, and pulled the trigger. The white substance spewed out toward the flames, dousing them in a cozy blanket of white powder. “Ahhh, yes. Against all expectations, Alex Coulson saves the day!”

His boss would be pleased with him. Okay, not pleased exactly because he had most likely left the Accelerator program running, but pleased because a major fire would have brought their unauthorized work to the attention of management. “And that would be bad.”

With a few short blasts of the fire extinguisher, he completed the blanket of white over the control board. He frowned and contemplated the scene. A little more wouldn’t hurt. Better to be safe than sorry. Crouching down, he directed the nozzle under the desk and pulled the trigger. Just in case.

He stood up and surveyed the room. Okay, it could have been worse. The whole lab could have gone up in flames, destroying countless hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. Not to mention the oh-so-secret data his boss guarded as if it held the answers to the universe. Yes, it could have been much worse.

He drew in a deep breath…and doubled over with the force of a violent coughing fit.

Crap. Smoke. Not a good idea to take deep breaths.

Fire extinguisher still in hand, he stumbled back to the main lab. His breath rasped in his throat, forcing its way past raw, inflamed flesh. At least the air in the main lab remained relatively smoke-free. In a few minutes, he would re-enter the inner lab and clean up the mess. With a bit of luck, the damage would be minimal. Maybe he could fix it himself. Clean up the fire retardant, replace a few wires, and—hey presto! Good as new with no evidence of the program he left running—no cause to fire him.

The shrieking of an alarm pierced the air, assaulting his eardrums with shrill vibrations. He closed his eyes and mouth, scrunching and squeezing his face as if trying to block the sound from entering any other orifice. A millisecond later, a deluge of water erupted from the ceiling sprinklers like an unexpected shower of summer rain. The muscles in his jaw slackened, and his mouth fell open.

Oh, crap!

Water drummed on his head and shoulders, seeping under the collar of his jacket. Mini rivers flowed across computers and desks before cascading to the shallow lake forming on the floor. The fire extinguisher hit the ground beside his foot with a waterlogged clunk.

I’m a dead man. Not to mention fired!

His shoulders slumped. Could his life get any worse?

The floor shook, sending vibrations up his legs and into his queasy stomach. Oh shit. Rule number one: never ask if it could get any worse. What the hell? An earthquake? Light exploded from the inner lab, propelling bright sparks through the doorway like tiny shooting stars. Water sloshed around his feet as he stumbled backward. The Accelerator! “Oh, shit, shit, shit!”

So. Not. Good.

A loud humming joined the vibrations. It pulsed through his body, loud enough to be heard over the sprinklers and fire alarm, shaking him to the core. Paralyzed, he stood transfixed. The inner lab glowed with a pulsating green light, matching its beat in harmony with the tremors running through the building and his body.

The vibrations were so intense he couldn’t move his legs. His head hurt and numbness crept over his face. He clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Vibrating, pulsating, and humming. Could his brain explode? Would they find his gray matter splattered all over the lab and floating in the newly formed lake?

As he opened his eyes, a fresh shower of sparks shot toward him. Burning! His arm burned, stinging like the devil at a precise spot on his forearm. He slapped the sleeve of his jacket like a maniac until the pain receded to a dull ache.

Okay, time to run.

In his mind, he stumbled toward the door, but his body refused to cooperate. He looked down. His legs were—

What the hell? His body appeared pixelated and a few sections were…missing? Whoa! There was some weird, scary shit happening.

The humming intensified, sending a wave of nausea through his stomach. He couldn’t feel his legs. Were they still attached to his body? The world tipped and then faded around the edges. No, no, no! He’d seen the experiments, and he had no way to stop the Accelerator from frying him—like those rats.

So. Not. Pretty.

At least no one would miss him.

Oh, God, that’s a sad and pathetic fact.

Searing hot pain exploded in his head like a—

“Ahhhhh!”

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Meet the Author

CM Corett is an Australian author of M/M romance who has given up on trying to limit herself to one sub-genre. She writes contemporary, historical, sci-fi, and time travel… and she may have a few paranormal drafts hidden under the bed! An avid writer and reader of love between men, she has lived in the USA and traveled the world gathering inspiration for her stories. She loves movies, superheroes, and video games with awesome graphics. She hates housework and anyone who expects her to notice (or care about) the dust on top of the fridge.

Synopsis

Eridan wields the coveted bardic rank of Master-Singer to keep his dying race’s culture alive in a brutal world of magic and war. He doesn’t know Sfassa, his brawny wife and musical partner, traded her fanged-and-furred alien shape for a more-human one so she could be with him. Their idyllic marriage shatters when, wounded by an assassination attempt, Sfassa must forever return to her birth shape and her own people.

Eridan still adores his wife and unborn child, but his prim religion and heritage now forbid his marriage. Only the Northwarden—a dangerously charming, genderfluid sorcerer who enforces civilization’s uneasy peace—can guide him toward a solution. Eridan finds he likes the Northwarden far too much for comfort.

Eridan can risk life and sanity to gain shapeshifting and Sfassa, or live a secret and protected life as the Northwarden’s lover. To keep them both, he picks a third audacious path, testing all his skills against vicious assassins, meddling volcano goddesses, his own dearly-bought pride, and the malevolent, sapient heart of the planet itself.

Excerpt

In the distance, a series of chords eased into a lively tune: the Witch-Queen’s daughter playing with growing confidence on her new girwood harp.

On the other side of the night-shrouded garden, Eridan Sydall, Master-Singer of all Lonhra, reeled homeward dizzy from wine and compliments. He’d only made the tall harp. By the time the princess grew into it, she’d be a Master in her own right.

Seeking his and Sfassa’s guest apartment, Eridan followed tiled paths and stairs between lush teal grass plumes, tall blue trees, and golden-glowing suncrystals on bronze pillars. The garden screened most of the Witch-Queen’s low palace on three sides. To the east, where the garden sloped down, Eridan glimpsed the lights of Throng, a sprawling tropical city where no building rose more than three stories from the rich soil.

Just when he thought himself completely lost, Eridan spotted two half-familiar palm trees on the north end of a terrace. A bronze bracket on one tree supported the Master-Singer’s banner, its black and dark red fabric rippling languidly in the night breeze. A suncrystal lamp hung from a bracket on the other tree. From the banner, lamplight picked out flashes of the silver emblems of his rank—harp, waves, and seven stars.

He navigated another short path through a dimmer courtyard, then pushed open a carved wooden door. Inside, the dark suite smelled of exotic flowers, clean-scrubbed tile still faintly damp, and a whisper of Sfassa’s musky-sweet scent.

Of course, she wasn’t back from the queen’s library yet. Eridan grinned, recalling the flustered archivists when they discovered the Master-Singer’s excessively tall, brawny barbarian wife was an avid scholar in her own right. Once convinced of Eridan’s safety in the palace, Sfassa spent her free time scribbling notes and comparing old folklore texts.

Eridan’s smile faltered as he noted the darkness in the suite. There should have been two ceramic lamps caging suncrystals, one in the salon where he stood, one over the arch leading to the kitchen and the bedchamber.

Cold, sharp metal touched the right side of his neck. The front door closed quietly behind him.

Eridan tensed. He had a knife at his belt and enough skill to use it in tight quarters. Instead, he breathed acrid chemical fumes, and his scream died in his throat. His muscles stiffened, locked in taut tremors. Something was horribly wrong in his brain, even his internal voice broken by pulses of static.

“Master-Singer, the silence-drug won’t kill you.” His assailant plucked the knife from his pocket and hauled his body back against her chest. “Go too long without the antidote and you’ll never write or babble more than nonsense again. Much less sing to the wrong ears. Don’t fight it. The faster your heart beats, the faster the drug will settle in your throat and brain. My sisters and I won’t kill you, you ugly little man. You’re to watch while we butcher your mongrel whore in front of you.”

Eridan slowed his breath, but he couldn’t calm his brain. If this was the infamous silence-drug he had half an hour at most. Who directed the attack? Who would know the two things he feared most to lose? Half the world, he thought next, cravenly regretting the last several centuries of being professionally obstinate.

The assassin didn’t speak again. Through the fog settling over his thoughts, Eridan tried to place the others by the sounds of their soft breaths and minute shifts of posture. They ranged around the door. Past the single window looking out on the garden, a soft rustle told him more people waited under the arch to the bedchamber.

The fog lifted a little. Eridan used the moment to aim his memory back a scant handful of hours. Had Sfassa been wearing her spears this evening? When she wasn’t in full armor, she wore a spear harness with the long leaf-shaped steel blades of her kori-spears jutting up like deadly feathers. Sfassa lived within arm’s reach of her weapons and felt naked without them.

The silence-drug worked differently on Eridan’s body than on the people it was meant for. His thoughts cleared enough to count his attackers from their breathing patterns. Five or six other people in the room, not counting the woman who restrained him.

The knife lost, he needed a distraction. He could move his right hand just enough to slip into the hip pocket of his own cotton robe. His fingers gripped the cool rounded shape of a glazed porcelain gourd-style flute, its tiny proportions meant for a Sirrithani child but just right for him. The young heir of Throng had formally traded it to him this morning for the girwood harp he’d crafted for her.

Gripping the eggshell-thin ceramic bulb, Eridan slowly flexed his wrist out of the pocket. He guessed the assassins used some kind of spell or artifact to let them see in the dark. He didn’t want them looking too closely at him.

Breathe and think. Sfassa would walk up to their door, probably with a satchel of notebooks in hand. Would she notice the lamps out? Would she scent the drug and Eridan’s fear?

Out in the garden beyond the banner, Sfassa called a happy farewell to someone. Her footsteps slapped closer and closer to the main door.

Now. Eridan opened his fingers. The little flute plummeted straight down onto the tiles and shattered noisily. Eridan heard a faint ping and a ripping sound at the same time.

His captor bit back a curse as she dragged him into the kitchen. Steel cut a fraction deeper into his neck. “You little Dana pest,” she whispered, lifting another drugged cloth to Eridan’s face.

Sfassa hurtled through the salon window in a crash of broken wood and ripped silk mesh, bringing some of the outer light with her. She howled as she dove low into the dim salon, avoiding the blades slicing where her throat should be. Light glinted against Sfassa’s feathery short mop of white hair. More faint silver sleeked along her bare body and shone off her spears. She’d stripped outside and weighted her dress with something.

She came up like a storm-surge, swinging her dress in a long, low arc. Two assassins fell with their legs wrapped in its tangle. She decapitated another with one spear, then stepped back and stomped down hard on two throats.

Their metal gorgets crushed before Sfassa’s considerable weight broke their necks. The remaining attackers paused. The one holding Eridan gave a frustrated hiss and dropped the second drugged cloth.

“I’ve the night-sight, too, dog-bitches, and I can smell you,” Sfassa growled in her low, burring voice. With another metallic ping she pulled her second kori-spear from the scabbard on her back. During the messy, grunting chaos Eridan struggled to stay upright, keep breathing, and remember his own name.

“She’s good. No matter. They’ll wear her down and gut her where she stands,” the assassin gloated softly in his ear. “Every blade but this one is poisoned.”

“I’m harder to kill than you think,” Sfassa snarled, swinging her head side to side, then orienting on the whisper. Someone gurgled their final breath behind her.

Eridan reached for the bare hand splayed across his chest, then wrenched back the woman’s little finger until it dislocated. She yelled as her arm swung wide. He ducked. His ear stung from the knife. Sfassa’s spear hammered into the assassin’s chest inches over his head, cleaving sternum and driving straight through heart, spine, and the tiled wall behind. The assassin choked and slumped, her slack fingers letting her knife bounce off Eridan’s shoulder and clang on the floor.

Sfassa gasped out, “Eridan? Little bard? Are you hurt?”

Eridan couldn’t answer. Shouts and running footsteps came through the garden, and he prayed it wasn’t more assassins. He stopped fighting gravity and let himself slide down the dead assassin’s legs, to sit on the now-filthy floor.

How many Master-Singers had been in enough battles to know the aftermath by scent alone?

You married Snowdancer, a wry part of himself warned.

Some of the blood smelled…wrong. Too familiar, even to his stunted nose.

Sfassa set down her right-hand spear, then found the salon lamp and unshielded it. Warm golden light spilled out over blood, steel, and slumped bodies. So much blood. Sfassa stood over the lamp, her strong body naked save for her harness and the shredded blue rags between it and her shoulders. Though she still held the left-hand spear ready, she smiled in sudden relief at Eridan.

“Well, love, I was expecting something like this since you sang heart back into those landcaste serfs outside Autanqa. But in the palace itself? And against me?”

Eridan forced out a single noise of sheer horror.

The first of the queen’s guards burst in through the door just as Sfassa looked down. Blood sheeted over her dark-bronze hips like a new skirt. Pink-gray intestines and pale yellow fat bulged from the long diagonal slash across her upper belly.

She rolled her eyes as if at a trifling setback. Said something filthy in a barbarian dialect, dropped her spear, and held her insides within the cut. Sfassa looked back up at Eridan, her next quip and fierce grin fading as her gaze tracked along his shaking body and frozen face. Her tall, whisker-fringed ears went flat against her skull.

Synopsis

By day, Professor Nicholas Littman works as an itinerant professor at a small college in the Pacific Northwest. He teaches seminars on mythology and the intersections of folklore and magic in the ancient world. By night, he’s the local necromancer, a rare magical talent that has left him alienated from other practitioners.

All Nick wants from life is to be left alone to run his magical experiments and teach kids the historical context of magic without anyone being the wiser. Unfortunately, his family is sworn to sit on the council of the Order of the Green Book—a group of magicians dating back to the Crusades—and they aren’t willing to take Nick’s no for an answer.

As though that wasn’t bad enough, a coven of Night Women has arrived in town, warning Nick that there are wolves at his door he had better take care of. But what can one necromancer do when every natural and supernatural card seems stacked against him?

Excerpt

One: The Professor
“Today we’re talking about the elision that occurs between Thoth worship in pre-Ptolemaic Egypt and early Greece. Let’s break into four groups for seminar,” Professor Nicolas Littman said, eyeing the half-empty teaching theater. He divided the room with a sweep of his arm and glanced at the clock on the back wall.

“We’ll meet back here in thirty minutes to discuss your thoughts as a group. And I want every small group to come up with a question to pose to the rest of us.”

He felt gratified at the way they began shuffling together into little clusters without further prompting.

“One of you should go use the lounge outside,” he said, waving absently at the small group at the very back of the room.

He didn’t care if they took the direction or not. He trusted in every student’s desire to escape the four walls of the classroom given a millimeter of freedom. All that mattered was that he now had thirty minutes of his own time in which to play hooky.

Nick grabbed a book and the vape out of his bag, and slipped out of the left-hand exit.

Why someone in the administration had decided to give him a corner theater for this class was beyond him. Four credits on Hermetic Mythologies and Cosmologies was hardly in demand. Especially when it was offered as a four-and-a-half-hour option on Saturdays. But if it meant they got a spacious room and the otherwise empty SEM II C building to themselves, he shouldn’t complain. His students could spread out to their hearts’ content, leaving him to steal outside to smoke without anyone around to gripe at him.

“Not even a proper smoke,” he muttered, flicking the round silver device on, warming the metal under his hand.

Nick sat on the concrete with his back to the building’s cement exterior and his knees bent, pressed the tip of the vape between his lips, and held down the button for a long, comforting drag. He closed his eyes to the bright sun and tipped his head back against the wall. Vapor streamed out of his pursed lips in a thick, fragrant cloud and pooled in the air above his head.

“Hiding from the students again?” an amused voice asked from above.

“I’m not hiding,” Nick grumbled.

A thin body lowered itself down onto the ground next to him, all long spidery limbs that folded with the kind of soft careless agility Nick hadn’t felt in a decade or two.

He looked over at his—teaching assistant wasn’t the word. Technically, Josiah didn’t work for him at all. He was just an independent contract student working on an eight-credit history project, but he let Nick use him like a TA so that’s how he always thought of him.

Josiah’s face crumpled up with amusement. His flexible mouth stretched into a laugh while his shoulders shook. Nick held out the vape on offer and waited for Josiah to notice.

“Is it peppermint?” he asked.

Nick nodded.

“No thanks.”

“I’m not buying cake or whatever it is you like.”

“Are you trying to say there’s something wrong with cake?” Josiah returned Nick’s stony look with a nonplussed expression.

“It’s unna—”

“First of all: I don’t remember tobacco ever coming in ‘peppermint flavor’ before, and second: everything you do is unnatural, so that’s not a valid argument coming from you, Professor Littman.”

Nick grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“Nick.”

He sighed and took another long drag off his vape, waiting for the nicotine to soothe the flutter in his heart that Josiah’s words had kicked up. Nothing he did was natural. The kid had no idea just how right he was. Nick glanced down at his empty hand, automatically checking his nails for pesky traces of dirt, but there was nothing unusual to see. He’d scrubbed up hard the night before. Done a thorough job not to leave any of those unnatural traces that might have given Josiah a better-formed picture of what his professor and academic adviser got up to in his free time.

Shit, even in his head, he sounded like a pervert.

“You’re wrong. Some things I do are perfectly natural.”

“Like what?”

Nick gave the young man a slow look. “You have a very active imagination, Mr. Wexler.”

“The imagination is a hungry organ, seeking perpetual nourishment. I like to think that it’s not so much I’ve got an active imagination, but rather a well-fed one.”

“That you feed on thoughts of me?” Nick smiled, playing the comment off as a joke even though it left something low and hot in his body to sit up with interest. A curl of amused interest that quivered at the thought of a bright young man captivated by thoughts of him, even if they were merely frustrated or prurient or the passing whim of childish fancy, as he suspected was the case.

“Sometimes,” Josiah admitted, looking away.

The two of them sat in companionable silence until the phone in Nick’s pocket hiccupped its alarm to let him know that the requisite thirty-minute small group had passed, and he had to return again to face the lethargy of his classroom.

“Did you need something?” he asked, using the wall to push himself to his feet, and slipped the vape back into his pocket.

Josiah pulled out a sheaf of printouts from his backpack and held them up for Nick to take. “Two new chapters. I wanted to get your thoughts on them before I continue. It took a—the narrative took a direction we haven’t discussed before.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“Nah, I’ve got to meet Jen. Talk to you next week?”

Nick nodded.

Above them, the sky had dimmed as sure as if someone had taken a dimmer switch to the sun. Dark clouds cast a clear, watery gray light over campus, the edges of the quad hemmed in on all sides by towering dark trees that only helped to feed into the illusion of night creeping over them. The air smelled as though it were about to rain, bitterly cold and damp.

“Do you think it’s going to snow?” Josiah asked, climbing to his feet.

Nick shook his head. “Not a chance.”

He filed back into the teaching theater behind the stragglers. Sixty minutes for discussion and in-class readings, and then he’d be free for the rest of the weekend. Nick perched his feet on the edge of his desk, saw the streaks of mud clinging to his shoes, and dropped them again. He cleared his throat and looked out at the crowd for the first person to meet his eyes.

“Ah, Amelia, why don’t you start us off with a brief summary of what your group discussed.”

He folded his arms over his chest and listened with half an ear while his focus strayed repeatedly to the darkening sky and the promise of rain.

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Meet the Author

Lia Cooper is a twenty-something native of the Pacific Northwest, voracious reader, pop-culture addict, and writer. She cultivated an early interest in writing through fandom and completed writing her first full length novel with the help of NaNoWriMo.

In the years since, she’s dabbled in catering, barista-ing, and working as a pastry chef before finally returning full time to the thing she loves most: storytelling.

When she’s not glued to Scrivener, Lia enjoys playing video games with friends and reviewing books for her booktube channel.

Synopsis

Prince Colin of Sendorra would have been the spare instead of the heir if fate hadn’t intervened. Like his father and forefathers, Colin is expected to marry and father a child or his principality reverts to Spain at the time of his death. Filling the royal nursery with healthy babies seems easy enough until Princess Charlotte—his childhood friend and intended bride—breaks off their engagement.

Nobel Prize winner—and powerful gray witch—Alain de Gris isn’t looking for love. Science and research have taken center stage for years until he walks into a club and lays eyes on Colin, thirteen years his junior.

Bisexual by nature, Colin seeks to avoid another engagement repeat by shying away from a same-sex relationship. There are no acceptable alternatives to provide legitimate offspring if he follows his heart.

But Colin can’t stay away from Alain and the witch finds him irresistible. Ignoring the absolutes isn’t easy when a legacy is in jeopardy. And while magic may offer a solution, it could also create more problems.

Excerpt

I slipped through a break in the eight-foot hedge that separated my granny’s rose garden from our garage. It was the same gap I used whenever I snuck out of the palace. Familiar with the prickly branches, I knew how to get through without a tear or a scratch. My bodyguards would be frantic the minute they realized I was missing, but the chance to sample nightlife as an ordinary man instead of a prince was too tempting.

Saddled at birth by a title I didn’t deserve, I’d spent all my life trying to convince everyone, myself included, that I had a right to exist. It wasn’t my fault that my twin, older by five minutes and thus the legitimate heir apparent, had been stillborn. Survivor’s guilt weighed heavily on my psyche, although it was pure chance that he died and I didn’t.

More than likely, the problem had lain with my method of conception. That story was glorified in the annals of our nation’s history. Male pregnancy had been risky from the word go, and no one knew this better than the man who gave me life, my father’s consort, Errol, the Duke of Maitland. He was a commoner who’d received the title after he married my other father, Prince Sebastian, who was heir apparent at the time. They’d been delighted to welcome me into the world, but it had been bittersweet after they were informed that my brother hadn’t made it.

Nonetheless, I was loved and pampered from the moment I first opened my eyes. Everyone doted on me, and I had a wonderful, albeit lonely, childhood. Once in a rare while, someone heartless would point out that I was the spare who’d usurped his brother’s title, but the incidents were few and far enough apart to be ignored.

Of course, no one bothered to ask me how I felt about having two dads and no mother. Not that they were bad parents—far better than most, or so I’d been told—and my granny, the Dowager Princess Alexandra, and her ladies-in-waiting provided all the feminine influence I could possibly need, but that didn’t stop me from wondering if I’d be a different person had I been created conventionally.

As things stood, I was determined to cram as many life experiences as possible before assuming the throne. Hopefully, my father, the current ruler, would live well into his seventies so I could achieve my goals. Since my twin was watching me from somewhere beyond these earthly boundaries, I wanted him to take comfort knowing I was doing a fine job with the role I’d unintentionally usurped.

My red Beemer purred to life, and I inched my way out of the garage, hoping no one would hear the engine. Most of the staff had already gone for the day. It was late, way past dinner, and the odds of being stopped were slim. Thankfully, my exit was uneventful.

I drove slowly until I hit the open road and gassed the engine when the palace faded from view. Dancing was on my mind, and the songs blaring from my radio helped to put me in the right mood. Since I had succeeded in a clean getaway, I decided on something different tonight. There was a new club in town—one that catered to a sexually fluid crowd—and this would be the perfect opportunity to check it out.

My interest in exploring my gay side wasn’t something new. I’d been attracted to both sexes growing up but had chosen my childhood friend, Princess Charlotte of Navarre, for my future bride. My fathers had been delighted, but they warned me things might change. A first crush seldom worked out, they’d cautioned, but I was determined to make it work, and thus avoid the complications that might arise from a same-sex union. Rather than risk another man’s life, or that of my unborn child, I would go the conventional route and marry a woman. Charlotte was the perfect choice, until she wasn’t.

My best friend, the sweet girl who’d promised to be my forever love, no longer held my interest, nor I hers. Our recent breakup—remarkably amicable thanks to multiple shots of vodka—signaled the end of childhood dreams and aspirations. And now, I was single again, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Until I turned twenty-one. Then the invisible clock would start ticking, and pressure to marry and begin a family would escalate.

At the club entrance, I scanned my surroundings. Across the mass of heaving bodies, someone caught my eye. The stranger’s dark hair was combed back, probably tied in a low tail, but I couldn’t say for sure. He was surrounded by people but ignored the crowd after our eyes locked. Even from a distance, the tingling in my groin led me to believe we’d be a good fit.

My royal status precluded random pairings as the inevitable fallout would be disastrous in more ways than I could count; however, the intensity in the brunet’s gaze was pushing me to break a few of my own rules tonight.

I was wearing a tight navy-blue sweater to complement my eyes, and a pair of skinny jeans. The sweater’s fabric stuck to me like a second skin, the perfect showcase for hard-earned shoulder and arm muscles. My blond hair was chin length, and I normally tucked it behind my ears. Even though I’d been told many times that it needed to be at least two inches shorter, I resisted because it was one of the few things in my regimented life I could control.

As next in line to the throne, I’d been brought up with a strict code of conduct, and I did my best to adhere to tradition. But with my formative years behind me, there was less room for mistakes. Eyes were on me twenty-four seven, and slipping through the proverbial cracks was always a thrill. My energy was on high alert tonight.

Although I had Prince Sebastian’s fair coloring, I was built more like my other father, Errol. My wide shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular thighs combined with my height—six two on bare feet—were imposing, especially in formal attire. My facial hair was more a heavy scruff than a beard, but it was a disguise I’d adopted after my sixteenth birthday. Some know-it-all mentioned I was too young to be in such a position of power. The beard seemed to have the desired effect, adding the necessary years and a certain flair that drew men and women in equal measure.

My stranger disappeared from the dance floor, and I headed toward the rear of the club. There was a room, where one could presumably get more intimate, and I glanced around, hoping to spot him. He seemed to have vanished. Irritated that he’d eluded me, I went back to the main area and ordered a beer and a shot. Killing time until someone else caught my eye, I ordered another one-and-one after inhaling the first, and one more after that. The sudden buzz didn’t do much to improve my mood. I’d been looking forward to a few hours of mindless fun, and sex had been high on my list.

I cleared my tab with cash to stay incognito and decided to make one more attempt to find the brunet. As soon as I entered the dark room, I felt the man’s presence. He was leaning against a wall, staring at me with purpose. We met halfway, and I was hypnotized by catlike eyes, an interesting mix of browns and greens. The chemistry between us was sending shock waves directly to my groin. I didn’t want to appear inexperienced, but I hadn’t been with a guy in a long time, and I was nervous. It took a boatload of willpower to keep up my cool façade.

Finally, the stranger broke the silence. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Circling my waist with strong arms, he dragged me against his body. We were the same height, and as our mouths got closer, so did our hips, but I avoided his kiss. I wasn’t ready for that yet and hoped he’d get the message. Without faltering, my hookup deftly moved to my neck and slowly licked his way up to the outer shell of my ear, whispering dirty nothings along the way. I could feel the barriers crumbling as my need took over, and the next time he tried to kiss me, I let him.

His lips were surprisingly soft, but stubble against stubble was a sensation I’d never felt before. Gradually, I responded to his questing tongue and let his strong hands clutch my ass cheeks and drag me against his growing erection. The jolt of desire made him reckless.

“Can we get out of here?” I asked hopefully.

“You bet,” my mystery man answered. He held my hand and led me toward the exit. A few seconds before we’d made a clean getaway, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. David, the royal event planner, and his partner, Sam, stood in our way.

“What are you doing here?” David asked, ignoring the guy beside me.

I was surprised to see him and went on the defensive. “None of your damn business.”

David was visibly shocked by my combative attitude but stood his ground. “You’ll be sorry in the morning.”

“Take your hands off him,” the stranger snarled. “He’s with me.”

“Look,” David said, trying a more amicable approach. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, and he’s obviously had too much to drink.”

“He gave me a clear message, and I’m acting on it.”

“Think again.”

Sam and David sandwiched me and headed toward the exit. My hookup was probably fuming, but our connection had been broken, and I couldn’t find the energy to put up a fight. David got behind the wheel of the car, and Sam sat in the back seat beside me.

After a few mild protests, I slumped against Sam and drifted off…

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Meet the Author

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multifaceted woman who is a product of her upbringing in multiple cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. A little bit of this and a lot of that have brought a unique touch to her literary voice she could never learn from textbooks.

By the time Mickie discovered her talent for writing, real life got in the way, and the business of raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing—and the inevitable emptying nest—dreams of becoming a published writer were resurrected and fulfilled in April 2009.

Mickie discovered gay romance in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from the LGBTQA community and their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called “gut-wrenching, daring, and thought provoking.” She admits to being an angst queen and making her characters work damn hard for their happy endings.

Synopsis

Ghost is content to spend all his free time with Gerry. But scandal and hate surrounding Ghost’s appointment as the first male witch, along with a deadly epidemic, force Ghost to make choices that will separate him from his love.

Spurred on by a message from his mentor, Ghost embarks on a journey through mystical underground tunnels and lost civilizations to the frozen lands of his origin, seeking a way to neutralize the threat back home. While he struggles to find a balance between his duties as a witch and his calling as a seer, all Ghost really wants is to return to the haven he has found in Gerry’s arms.

Excerpt

Prologue
Gerry strode down the slate path beside the house, toward the familiar and rhythmic sound of Ghost chopping herbs. Ghost was absorbed in his work at his bench, so Gerry took the opportunity to stand in the doorway and admire Ghost from behind. His snowy white hair was tied in a messy tail hanging between his shoulder blades. His pert buttocks presented an enticing sight in his smooth leather breeches. Although he stood just a bit over sixteen hands in height, his lean muscles rippled under his shirt as he trimmed and tied the herbs to be dried. While Ghost finished hanging a bundle of greens by the stem, Gerry snuck up and wrapped his arms around Ghost’s middle. Ghost startled, then laughed and relaxed against Gerry.

“Do I smell scones?” Gerry asked into Ghost’s ear. Ghost turned to face him, and Gerry stole a playful kiss. His hip brushed against the curve of Ghost’s rear.

Ghost leaned back into the embrace. “I had the time this morning. The sole visitor I had was a woman with a deep cut. She slipped when she was chopping root vegetables and the knife went clean to the bone.” Ghost wriggled free from Gerry’s embrace. “Now, let me wash up and we’ll eat.”

Gerry patted Ghost’s rear as Ghost walked past him. Ghost ducked his head and smiled. Gerry followed him into the yard, enjoying the view as Ghost rinsed from the bucket by the well.

“I saw the godsman today.” Ghost stiffened enough for it to be perceptible before Gerry continued. “He says we can make it official at the full moon.”

Six moons had passed since the godsman had refused to perform the rite for them, claiming Gerry and Ghost had not had a proper courtship and could not be sure of their convictions in such a short time.

“If you still want to, of course. And if you can last another quarter moon.”

Ghost spun and launched himself into Gerry’s arms. Gerry laughed as Ghost buried his wet hands in Gerry’s hair and pulled Gerry down into a heated kiss.

When Ghost finally let Gerry up, Gerry gazed into Ghost’s ice-blue eyes and smiled. “I’ll take the kiss for a yes.” Ghost opened his mouth to speak, but Gerry touched his finger to Ghost’s lips to stop him. “And I’m also going to tell you I’m the happiest man in the village right now. I love you, Ghost. I’d lay down my life to protect you, and I won’t ever let you be harmed. You’ll always be safe right here in my arms if you accept my offer to be my mate and bind yourself to me.”

“Of course the kiss is a yes.” Ghost’s eyes glistened like ice melting in the sun, and his lips trembled through his smile. “I’ll bind myself to you gladly, Gerry. I trust you to keep me safe, even when I’m reckless, and I know you’ll protect me from whatever goes wrong. Your arms are my sanctuary when I’m ready to give up because I know you’ll be strong for me. And I love you. I’ll love you for as long as I live.”

The full moon finally arrived, and Ghost and Gerry dressed in their best clothing to appear in the gods’ house. Gerry brushed Ghost’s hair until his long tresses shone. Ghost’s nimble fingers danced along the line of bone buttons on Gerry’s shirt. The traditional gift to the gods, consisting of a fat runner and a cask of mead, had been accepted and left on the offering table.

Gerry listened to the godsman’s droning voice. Ghost stood beside him. Both of them faced the gods’ wall, decorated with carved masks for the Seven and a blank mask for the Eighth.

“As our gods themselves have done, you come to take an oath to bind yourselves together. Ghost, you will no longer be solely Gerry’s dependent. You will be Gerry’s mate, first in Gerry’s heart. Gerry, you will no longer be solely Ghost’s alpha. You will be Ghost’s mate, first in Ghost’s heart. You must give each other unconditional love and trust, setting the needs of the other above your own. Gerry, you must protect Ghost and guide him. Ghost, you must trust Gerry’s judgment and let him guide you. Above all, you must not forsake the oath you take today in the sight of the gods.”

The godsman placed Ghost’s hand in Gerry’s. As he wrapped a thin red cord around their wrists, he said, “The Father and the Lady. He protects and she guides. The Hunter and the Farmer. He culls and she nurtures. The Sea and the Moon. He sends dreams and she awakens love. The Seeker and he whose name shall remain unspoken. Let all the gods bear witness to your oath.”

Gerry turned to gaze into Ghost’s clear blue eyes, seeing joy and love reflected back. “I offer you my protection and my love. I will care for you and keep you from harm for all of my days. You will be first in my heart, Ghost. Before the gods, this is my oath to you.”

Ghost’s voice was strong. “I accept your protection and your love, and offer you my love for all of my days. I will trust in your care and find safety at your side. I will care for you, and you will be first in my heart, Gerry. Before the gods, this is my oath to you.”

The godsman tied a loose knot in the cord that joined their wrists. “May the gods smile upon you both and bless this mating.”

The cord around their wrists did nothing to dampen the ardor of the kiss Gerry bestowed on Ghost, a kiss Ghost returned with equal enthusiasm. They were mated now, and Gerry’s elation could not be contained as he claimed his beloved witch for his own.

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Meet the Author

Morwen has been writing since she could first hold a pencil, and by all accounts she didn’t limit myself to paper. Walls, tablecloths and the occasional sibling were all fair game, and it shouldn’t be surprising to learn that markers were banned in her home with all due haste. Although she now contents herself with inconveniencing electrons, the desire to bring the stories in her mind to life hasn’t waned.

In her spare time, she reads, putters in the kitchen, and relaxes on her terrace or at the lake, weather permitting, with her corgi who strives to be part muse, part food disposal. She’s also addicted to coffee and has a close relationship with her Keurig.

Synopsis

Pierce may have a crush on Steve, his sweet, funny personal trainer, but he doesn’t plan to act on it. They have a great relationship in the gym but are also friends outside of it, and Pierce has no intention of jeopardizing that. Besides, he may be an omega, but he’s got a good handle on his body’s biology. He’s not worried he’ll accidentally take things too far.

Steve may have a crush on Pierce, his smart and incredibly hot client, but he’s definitely not planning to say anything anytime soon. Pierce can do way better than Steve, and anyway, Pierce is a pretty casual dater. What Steve wants is anything but casual. And that’s not just the alpha in him.

When Pierce goes to Steve’s gym one snowy afternoon to work out, he thinks nothing of the fact that he’s in heat. He’s taken his libido inhibitor and is wearing his odor blocker, so there’s no chance of bothering Steve. Except, then the blocker wears off.

Steve wants nothing more than to keep himself under control, keep himself from doing something Pierce might not want. But Pierce might have something else in mind…

Excerpt

Chapter One
Pierce walked into Steve’s studio, the bell jingling cheerily as the door swung open and closed, and hung up his coat. He pulled off his boots, switched them out for his sneakers, and then stepped out onto the empty matted area.

“Steve?” he called.

“Coming! Pick some music!”

Pierce shrugged and headed over to the speaker system and fiddled with the iPod Steve kept plugged in there, scrolling to one of his playlists. Steve kept music for all his clients on it, which was one of many personal touches that made him the best personal trainer ever.

By the time Pierce had settled on a playlist, Steve had come into the studio. He was barefoot today, and Pierce winced. Bare feet meant it was going to be a hard-core cardio day.

Plus side to cardio: he was often so focused on what he was doing, time passed fairly quickly.

Downside to cardio: it made him kind of want to die.

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling. “How you doing today?”

“Not bad. Almost done with a couple of projects.”

“Awesome. Is one of them the book covers?”

Pierce couldn’t help but smile. Another reason Steve was so great was that he truly cared about his clients and remembered the details of their lives. “Yeah, the publishing company and I have pretty much settled on everything.”

Pierce was a graphic designer, and he worked primarily from home, which was one of the main reasons he’d found Steve and his studio. Because he spent most days sitting, he needed the exercise, and a reason to leave his house unrelated to getting groceries.

He did have friends he socialized with of course, but working from home was a lot of time to spend by yourself. Hence seeing Steve three times a week.

“So let me guess.” Pierce sighed. “We’re focusing on cardio first.”

Steve laughed. “What gave me away?”

Pierce stared pointedly at Steve’s feet.

Steve laughed again and wiggled his toes. “All right, all right. Sounds like I don’t have to introduce the program. Shall we get started?”

Synopsis

At twenty-four, Mallory Grant is still struggling with adulthood. She can’t seem to make it in to work on time and deals better with her Tumblr friend on the other side of the world than a face-to-face with a real live human. But when her boss threatens to fire her as a rental agent, Mallory has to buckle down with her new client or end up jobless.

Corinne Ibori is moving to the Chicago area and needs a place to call home. Mallory’s goal is to find just the right location for Corinne’s needs and show her boss she’s turned over a new leaf. Corinne is thirty-five, self-confident, beautiful, flirty, has a French accent, and knows what she wants.

Mallory is finding it hard to believe that what Corrine wants might be her.

Excerpt

Today has to be a new record for me. Forty-five minutes late for work and I’m sitting in the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru behind a line of cars at least a half mile long. One might think I have no respect for punctuality. And they’d be right. I’ve been on a losing streak lately with my alarm clock. It tries so hard to wake me up with the beeping and the screeching.

I have to have my coffee before I meet the day head-on, though. Therefore, I wait. Might as well be productive while I sit here. I text Helena, asking her if she’s seen my Tumblr post with the new pictures of Charlize Theron. She’s cut all of her hair off, and it’s sexy as fuck. Maybe she did it for a new movie role, maybe just to torture me. It’s hard to say.

Helena replies back, “Duh, Mallory. Of course, I’ve seen it.” She immediately saved it to her hard drive for safekeeping. This is why we are friends. Unfortunately, though, she lives on the other side of the ocean so most of our conversations are in the form of emails and texts.

I don’t really do so well with live humans unless I’m getting paid to customer-service them. I’m perfectly content with the friends that live inside my computer as far as my personal life goes. Helena gets me, and I make her laugh. Works out perfectly.

A few more cars move, and I’m almost to the ordering screen. I check the clock. 9:15 a.m. Yikes. This is super late, even for me. Silently, I pray that my boss isn’t in this morning—still traveling or has tripped on her kids’ Legos and sprained her ankle.

“Mallory, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it in today. You’ll be able to hold down the fort without me, right?”

“Absolutely, Shelly. You can count on me. I’ve been here for hours now. Everything is going smoothly.”

“Perfect. You’re an amazing employee. I’m definitely giving you a raise and maybe even an expense account. Also, I think you should take a month-long vacation when I get back. Honk.”

“Sorry!” I yell from inside my car where no one can hear me. I wave, hoping they forgive my idiotic daydreaming.

Quickly, I pull through, order my coffee and the bagel I swore to myself I wouldn’t get.

When I make it to work, I realize that my daydream was exactly that. There’s a sticky note lying on my desk from Shelly.

See me when you get in.

There’s no “Thanks!” or her name with a smiley face. She knows that I’ll be aware of exactly who wrote the note. And she knows that I’ll be aware of exactly what I need to see her about.

The sense of dread I feel at moments like this never motivates me to do the right thing (i.e. show up on time), but only serves to remind me of how much I suck at life. That nasty little voice in my head is chanting “loser alert!” over and over.

Staring at the note, I take a minute to contemplate my next move. I could fake the stomach flu, invoking her pity. Well, at least temporarily. I’ll have to face the facts at some point, and that some point might as well be now. Sucking it up, I throw my things on my desk and do the walk of shame to her office.

I could easily walk through this maze of dull gray cubicles with my eyes closed. I’ve done it so many times. The chatter of twenty different people on the phone, scheduling apartment viewings, fills the air. Ben’s giant pair of green foam Hulk hands sit atop his bookshelf. I give them a fist bump. Ben glances up from his phone call, nods, and winks. He’s the only tolerable human here.

Almost every desk has one or two framed pictures of loved ones, boyfriends, kids, husbands. A candid of a group of friends at a wedding taunts me as I walk past Tracy’s desk. She also has a Post-it note holder in the shape of a red high-heeled shoe. She thinks it’s cute, and I think it’s hideous.

Each time I have to make the trip from my desk to Shelly’s, I’m forced to think about the absence of pictures and mementos on mine. Yeah, I could frame a picture of my brother or of my childhood dog, Scrabble, but I don’t actually want anyone here to know that much about me.

Peeking around the corner, I check to see if the boss-lady is on the phone or possibly reaming some other poor soul a new asshole, in which case I can hightail it out of here. No such luck. She peers up from her desk, her face the picture of annoyance. She extends her hand, waving me in.

“Hi, Shelly! You wanted to see me?” I ask cheerily.

“Save it. Sit down. We need to talk.” Her tone isn’t angry, just fed up. Honestly, this makes me feel even worse. She used to like me. And she’s stuck her neck out for me more than once. I’ve disappointed yet another person in my life. I might need to start a spreadsheet in order to keep track.

Awkwardly, I take a seat across from her, trying to work out if I should cross my legs or leave them uncrossed. Which leg position makes a person seem less like a failure?

“Listen,” she says, sighing deeply. “I know this isn’t your dream job. Nor would I expect you to treat being a leasing agent as such. But I do expect that you show some respect for me. I don’t make office hours for shits and giggles, Mal. You had an appointment this morning with a client. She sat in the lobby waiting for you for almost an hour.”

Fuck. Me.

“Exactly.”

I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.

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Meet the Author

Amanda Rhodes watches way too much TV and has a ridiculous amount of books on her to-be-read pile, yet she keeps buying them. She’s been writing since… well for a long time. Amanda loves the paranormal, sci-fi, and fantasy but could never ever write it herself. She’ll leave that up to the weirdos who do it best. Amanda lives in Chicago with her wife, four children, and pitbull who is a lazy bum.